


Masks

by cryptaknight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptaknight/pseuds/cryptaknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt #:</b> 28- “Astoria is married to Draco through a pre-arranged marriage. She doesn't like her husband and his cheating ways. She's in love with Draco's best friend, Theodore Nott - has been for years. One night, she decides to taste what infidelity is like.”<br/><b>Pairing(s):</b> Draco/Astoria, Theodore/Astoria<br/><b>Rating:</b> NC 17<br/><b>Summary:</b> Everyone wears masks in Astoria’s world. One night, she decides to take hers off.<br/><b>Word Count:</b> ~5700<br/><b>Warnings/Content:</b> Infidelity</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in response to a prompt at the 2012 Wizard Love exchange on Livejournal

***

Astoria is talking to Daphne, but her eyes wander elsewhere. Babies hold little interest for her, though the display of her nephew is the nominal reason for their presence here at her sister’s home tonight. Astoria looks at the infant, and sees little more than her doomed future. Broodmares, that’s all they are, she thinks. Married off for the sole purpose of spawning the next generation of purebloods. Daphne is smug in motherhood, cooing down at her swaddled child. She has performed her duty; Graham Montague has his heir.

Astoria has, thus far, failed to do the same, though her marriage to Draco is nearly a year old. Draco does not visit the marriage bed often enough, or at the right times. Astoria is fairly certain her husband hates her, or at the very least, is completely indifferent to her. She does not mind. She prefers it. They were forced into this marriage; it would irritate her to pretend it is anything other than what it is.

She would feel sorry for Draco if she weren’t well aware of his infidelities. She may not love him, but she has kept her vow of forsaking all others. It is different for women, she thinks resentfully. She would be judged.

“Where is its nanny?” Astoria asks, shifting in her chair.

An amused snort emanates from the corner, which Astoria ignores for the moment.

“She has the night off,” Daphne says, her mouth pursing that prissy way she has whenever she thinks Astoria is being a particular cow. “And _he_ has a name.”

“Yes, I know,” Astoria replies, her tone bored. “Graham the Third. It’s terribly original.”

There is another chuckle, and Astoria turns her head this time to glare at the source. 

Theodore Nott stands by the sideboard, his long fingers curled around the neck of a decanter of scotch. He wears a sardonic grin, along with impeccably tailored clothing. His dark hair is brushed back from his forehead. Astoria thinks he looks nicer when it falls into his eyes.

“Is something amusing you, Nott? Do share the joke.” Her voice is sharp, but her eyes are staring at those fingers. They are so very long and, she suspects, clever. She has often wondered what Theodore’s fingers would feel like on her. In her. She doubts she will find out. That sort of thing is Draco’s style. Not hers.

Theodore shakes his head, though his face still wears that slightly mocking expression. “Not at all, my dear. I was thinking of something else entirely.”

Astoria formulates an acidic retort, but she ends up holding her tongue. She does not feel like drawing Draco’s attention, and arguing with his best friend will certainly do exactly that. Her spouse is deep in conversation with Millicent Pucey, née Bulstrode, and her husband Adrian. She would allow him that pleasure before they were forced to play happy families for the remainder of the evening.

Eventually they must, however, and once Graham the Third is put to bed for the night- or at least the next couple of hours, Astoria thinks with a mental smirk- they gather on the sofas and chairs, to indulge in nostalgia and gossip. Millicent gets the ball rolling with a tale of an owl she’s received from Pansy Parkinson, who is still abroad, flitting from one society hotspot to another in Europe. Apparently she’s taken up with a blood traitor of some sort, a detail that Millicent and Daphne find desperately amusing. Astoria finds it yawn-inducing; she couldn’t care less about Pansy, and indeed, hardly knows the woman, who was several years ahead of her in school.

Draco’s face, however, hardens at the rumours of his ex. Astoria doubts that Pansy is the one that got away or anything so romantic, but she knows that Draco resents having been told to break things off with her in favour of the marriage his parents had arranged with hers. He still cares for Pansy, as a dear friend at the very least, but the witch wants nothing to do with him, spurning him for her travels.

“Adrian, tell the others about your birthday festivities,” Draco demands abruptly, before taking a swig of his scotch that nearly drains his glass.

Pucey looks bemused- he is not the sharpest quill in the drawer- but obliges her husband. “Right, well- it’s going to be fancy dress,” the older Slytherin says, sounding pleased. As if this is the cleverest notion anyone has had, ever; as if they don’t attend a fancy dress party at least once a season. “We’re holding it at my family’s country seat in Devon. And the lot of you shall be invited, of course.”

As a conversational gambit, it fails. Everyone murmurs about how pleased they will be to attend and then returns directly to the previous topic of Pansy and her paramour. Draco scowls, and Theodore leans over to refresh his beverage. Astoria dares a glance at Theodore, taking a quick mental portrait of his lush mouth, filing it away for fantasy fodder later.

He is Draco’s best friend, she tells herself. Still, when Theodore happens to glance back at her a moment later, she holds his eyes a second longer than she should, taking in the weight of his hooded stare. She feels bold- it is probably partly the cocktail in her hand, and partly her complete boredom with the current discussion- but she is still the one to look away first.

She and Draco make their excuses and leave after a bit. Draco is silent and broody when they arrive home, heading into his study after a perfunctory good night. There will certainly be no attempt at an heir on this night. Astoria would reach out to him, but she quickly learned that her husband has no desire for what comfort she could offer. She makes her way to her own rooms and comforts herself instead.

***

The invitations arrive for Pucey’s party. Astoria has no idea what sort of costume she wants to wear; she only knows it cannot be one she’s worn before. She decides to go consult with Madame Malkin, and offers to pick one out for Draco as well. He is happy with this; while he enjoys dressing well, Draco does not enjoy shopping. Astoria sees this as a chance to indulge her creative side, though she supposes that if she were a different sort of Slytherin, it would be an opportunity for revenge. Shepherdess and sheep? Belly dancer and snake? The mental images make her giggle, which causes Draco to raise an eyebrow, but Astoria shakes her head and leaves without explanation. In the end she will choose something suitable.

At Madame Malkin’s, with the assistance of the old crone’s very able apprentice, Astoria chooses a Tudor design; the gown will be gorgeous, and she does get her minor jab in at Draco by making him wear pantaloons and trunk hose. Though he does have very nice legs, the prat, she doubts he will enjoy showing them off in this fashion. One never knows with Draco Malfoy, however. She and the shop girl agree that the pair of them will be stunning, while they also agree that Draco will be frowning when he sees what she’s chosen. He won’t be able to argue, however, and that’s the key thing. He’ll have no grounds to shoot the costume down. Astoria leaves the clothing shop feeling immensely satisfied.

She’s not ready to leave Diagon Alley; the sun is shining and the air is temperate, and she wants to walk around. Perhaps she will shop a bit more. She wanders from store to store, picking up bibs and bobs from here and there- a decorative piece for the drawing room, a pretty hairpin that will look striking with her golden hair, a tie for Draco. She ends at Flourish and Blotts, and decides to go inside, intending to pick up a few magazines to read during her nightly bubble bath.

Inside, she finds herself wandering the shelves. She’s not certain what she’s thinking, only that Draco is very intellectual; he’s always reading something, and while she’s mostly given up hope for a happy marriage, perhaps if she can share some of his interests, they can at least have a pleasant one. They are bound until one of them dies, after all. There is no divorce in the Greengrass family, nor in the Malfoys. It may as well not be complete torture. Too, then, there is the way her husband speaks admiringly of women like Hermione Granger , Penelope Clearwater, Lisa Turpin... though she will never be dark and bookish, Astoria would not mind being admired. By anyone, really.

She trails her fingers over the leather spines of the books, hoping to find a title that holds her interest while being lofty enough to impress her husband. She is lost in this, not paying attention. She is startled when another hand covers hers, enough to make an unladylike sound and whirl about to see who dared the familiarity.

Theodore Nott is standing there, the customary mocking smile on his face. He is mere inches from her, his hand now on the bookshelf behind her, his arm effectively trapping her there. _Sotto voce_ , he says, “Now what on earth are you doing here?”

Astoria does a fair imitation of her sister’s priss-mouth. “I’m endeavouring to purchase a book. Is that so shocking?”

“For you?” Theodore’s voice is still low. It is doing strange things to her belly. He is so very close, and it makes her skin feel hot and too tight. She wonders if he knows. If he is doing this on purpose. “Indeed it is. Those seem more your speed.”

He’s indicated the magazines she’s got in the shopping basket looped over her lower arm. Astoria glares at him, and shoves him away.

“Oh, sod off, Nott.” Her attraction to him doesn’t preclude ire at being insulted. “You hardly know me.”

He arches an elegant brow. “I think I know you quite well, Astoria Greengrass Malfoy. I’ve been paying attention.”

Astoria’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. What can she say to that? She sniffs instead, and turns on her heel, pulling a book at random from the shelf and tossing it in her basket. His voice, still pitched low, follows her down the aisle.

“You’re wasting your time.”

She feels her cheeks go hot, and certain they are pink, she doesn’t dare turn around. She continues to ignore him and goes to the front to make her purchase. She is aware of him, however, of the Theodore shaped figure taking up the space behind her. She wants to hate him, for his snarky words, for his implied insult, for the truth she wishes he didn’t know about her and Draco. She doesn’t want to desire him. But she has for years- she feels it as a part of her, the wanting has been there so long- and it is too late to stop now.

At home, she goes through her purchases. The book is in the bag she opens last. _The Mating Habits of the Lethifold._ Fabulous.

She takes the book up with her that evening, making sure to tuck it elegantly into the crook of her elbow like it is the latest accessory. Draco barely spares her a glance as she leaves the drawing room, though she thinks she detects the briefest note of surprise in his eyes before he turns back to his own reading. Good. Let him see that he hasn’t got her all figured out. Let him see what he’s dismissed out of hand. Let him notice her. She doesn’t want his love. She can’t help craving his attention.

In her nightgown, in her bed, she actually does open the book. The bloody lethifolds could mate, if she couldn’t. It’s dry and boring, though, not the least bit titillating, and Astoria finds herself thinking of the encounter at Flourish and Blotts that afternoon. How close Theodore had been. How he’d nearly pinned her to the shelf. What if he had taken it a step further? What if she had dared to make him?

The books falls to the floor as her hand drifts downward of its own volition. Lost in a fantasy of Theodore pressing her against those very shelves, thinking of his mouth, his fingers, his darkened, hooded eyes, her hand steals under the hem of her nightgown, finding her slick folds. She runs her fingers along her crevice, then slips them inside, imagining all the things she would let Theodore do to her. If given the chance. If she wasn’t married. If he wanted her in return. Her head tips back against the pillow, and she turns her face to muffle her moan as her orgasm rocks her.

She tells herself this is enough, and she drifts off to sleep.

***

Pucey’s party seems to be a success. Astoria watches the crush from the far side of the room, some sort of elegant cocktail, designed especially for the occasion by one of Millicent’s elves, loosely held in her fingers. She and Draco have already made the rounds as a couple, and she is content for now to observe on her own, while he’s off doing whatever it is that he does. It’s a bit of a lark, trying to determine who is who; the costumes range from elaborate confections like her own, to simple capes and dominoes, and absolutely everything in between.

Millicent is, of course, the most elaborate of them all, her costume charmed to shift every fifteen minutes or so, adapting to those around her. It’s ingenious, and Astoria actually wonders who came up with the notion, because while Millicent seems to have reinvented herself as queen of the social scene, the older Slytherin hasn’t become any cleverer.

She thinks she has her answer when murmur swells through the crowd, as everyone turns to make note of a late arrival. It seems Millicent has managed to lure Pansy Parkinson home from Europe, after all. With nary a blood traitor in sight. It’s quite the social coup; Astoria has to hand it to Millicent. Even if it sets her teeth on edge.

Pansy has found a different path to social redemption. Rather than bogging herself down in an acceptable marriage, she disappeared, making herself a mystery, making her return a celebration. She’s come home lovely, rejuvenated; she’s bright and engaging and sexy, and everyone is staring at her- Astoria’s husband in particular. Astoria’s fingers tighten on the stem of her martini glass, and she raises the drink to her mouth, swallowing it down in one go.

“Care to dance?”

The voice catches her by surprise; it sounds purposefully disguised, but Astoria doesn’t mind, because the owner of the voice has come to distract her and make her feel wanted, even if only for a turn on the floor. Her rescuer is one she noted earlier, a tall man in a domino that covers the upper half of his face, a cowl covering his head, the cape trailing down his back and over his arms, to the floor. Though simple, it is a brave get up in this crowd, so closely does it resemble Death Eater garb. Everyone here would like to forget such people ever existed, and she almost admires how this man is boldly reminding them.

She nods, holding out her hand, leaving the empty glass on a nearby table. The man holds out his hand in return; it is not gloved, and Astoria’s lips quirk into a smile. She would recognise those fingers anywhere.

She waits until she is in his arms, dancing, before she says anything. When she does, she merely whispers his name. “Theodore.”

“And here I thought myself so cunningly disguised,” he says, his voice dry but back to normal.

Astoria puts on a haughty air. “I told you I am more clever than you give me credit for.” The air is ruined, however, when she giggles, an irritating side effect of the drink she consumed so quickly. She tries to stifle the giggles, and manages a closed-mouth, “Hummmph.”

Theodore looks at her, and Astoria decides it is quite odd seeing his eyes through the holes of the domino. He doesn’t look quite so sardonic when his eyebrows are obscured, and all she can see are the brown irises.

“Perhaps so,” is all he says, and then he whirls her in a way that makes her head spin a little. When her eyes focus, they land on Pansy. Draco is with her; their heads are bent close together. Draco looks intent, Pansy bored. Astoria cannot help frowning.

“It’s always been her, you know.” Theodore has clearly followed the line of her gaze.

Astoria’s cheeks go hot. “I’m sure I don’t know to whom you are referring.”

Theodore’s voice is almost gentle. “Parkinson. It’s always been her, for Draco. I thought you knew.”

Astoria shakes her head, feeling every inch the idiot. “Why didn’t he just _marry_ her, then?” She will not let her voice shake. She has never loved Draco, but she has always hated feeling second best. And she has always felt that way, whether it be to Daphne, to the other girls in her year, or now, to Pansy. “She’s a pureblood.”

“And she’s as tainted as he is. The Malfoys would never have allowed it. They needed _you_ and your unsullied reputation.” He says all this in a voice that sounds almost bored. He probably is. It affects him not at all. “Besides. Your hair color is much more suitable for making blond babies. Wouldn’t be a Malfoy if it wasn’t properly tow-headed.”

He reaches out, tweaking one of her long curls, as if to emphasise his point. Astoria thinks that she must be truly intoxicated, because she has no urge at all to tell him off.

“Want my advice?” he asks.

“No,” she says, but he carries on anyway.

“Give him an heir. Then you can do what you want.”

Astoria snorts. “And what is it that I want?”

“Right now?” He pauses. “Some fresh air. Come with me to the balcony.”

It’s not a question, but Astoria doesn’t object, and lets him lead her away from the crowded ballroom, into the next room and out onto a balcony. On the next balcony over, Astoria can see a few couples, pressed tightly together, but on this balcony, she is alone with Theodore. She steps to a part hidden in shadow. Theodore is right there in an instant, standing in front of her.

“And now that I’m here?” She strives to keep her voice light, playful, but it comes out so quietly that she fears it gives her away; that Theodore might know how nervous and vulnerable she feels vexes her terribly. “Now what do I want?”

His face is so close, as they stay hidden in the shadows. It’s some trick with her massive gown, but Theodore manages. She supposes he knows that the only allure she has is in her pristine reputation.

“This,” he whispers, and it sends a shudder through Astoria’s body, because his breath ghosts over her lips. Then she realises what he means to do, but before she can object his fingers are nudging her chin ever so slightly, and then his lips cover hers.

And then she is helpless, because she has wanted this and fantasised about this for so very long that it is simply a part of who she is by now. Her lips part under his, giving him full access, and the kiss turns hungry and wild, his teeth scraping her lips before his tongue invades her mouth, his hands grabbing her waist and pulling her close. Astoria, mindless, tugs him further into the shadow, wanting more and not wanting to be seen.

When he lifts his head for air, his hands still clutching her tightly, she asks, “And what makes you think I want this?”

The question is silly, she knows, given her response to him and the fact that her hands are gripping his shoulders in a very desperate sort of manner. He answers anyway.

“I told you, I’ve been paying attention.” He smirks. “Are you claiming that you don’t want me?”

“Do I?” Astoria asks, all innocence, though her lips are already bruised from his brutal kisses.

“Shall I make a determination?”

Unlike her, Theodore requires no answer, and instead he bends his head again, taking her mouth once more. She offers no resistance. She is too thoroughly enjoying learning the feel of his lips and his tongue and the way his body feels, pressed flushed against her.

He pushes her up against the stone wall, in the darkest corner of the balcony. Somehow, he moves her voluminous skirts out of the way, his hand sliding up her bare leg. She can’t believe she’s letting him, but, by god, it’s those fingers she's been dreaming of for so bloody long, and they are on her thigh, creeping higher, and all she can do is sigh and allow him.

“No knickers?” he asks, and his voice is rough and different. Astoria decides she likes it, that she can make his voice change in such a fashion.

Breathlessly, she shakes her head. “I wanted... to be true to the period.”

She looks directly into Theodore’s eyes as his fingers breach her. She knows what he finds: she is slick, and hot. His eyes darken, and she sucks in a breath as he slides those magnificent fingers inside of her.

“You want me,” he declares, his face fierce.

Astoria presses her lips to his neck so she won’t moan and be overheard. He moves his hand, and suddenly she feels like suppressing any sort of sound is impossible.

“Theodore,” she gasps, her mouth still against his throat. “Not here.”

She feels frantic, because she knows if he continues, she will let him shag her right here, just let him bend her over the balcony and do whatever he wants, and then everyone at Adrian Pucey’s birthday party will know exactly what sort of woman she is.

He withdraws his fingers, and Astoria feels a moment of regret before stepping aside and shaking her skirts back into order. She pats her hair, knowing there is no help for her swollen lips. She’ll have to renew the cosmetic charm on her lips, and hope no one notices. She tries to ignore Theodore, but it is quite impossible. She’s far too aware of his body, still mere inches from her, of his breathing, which is satisfactorily ragged. She turns her eyes back to him.

“I’m going up to one of the guest rooms on the third floor. Perhaps in twenty minutes or so, you might follow me.” After saying this, Theodore disapparates, leaving Astoria on her own to find her way back inside.

***

Twenty minutes seems interminable. Astoria decides she appreciates it, however, because it gives her time to compose herself, time to sober up and decide if she really wants to do this. And when she decides that she very much does- that she must be brave and take this chance, because it is likely the only one she will ever have- it gives her time to be seen, to make small talk and take a dance with the man of honor and a few other old classmates, before she excuses herself to the loo.

She does go to the loo, in case anyone is watching. She stares at herself in the looking glass, almost expecting to see someone entirely different. She certainly doesn’t feel like Astoria Greengrass Malfoy at all. But the woman staring back at her is almost identical to the one she saw before she left her own house- pale, with golden hair piled on top of her head, light blue eyes rimmed with kohl to make them stand out. The only difference is her mouth, and even then she  
can’t be certain her eyes aren’t playing tricks on her, using what she knows to make her see what isn’t there. She closes her eyes, then, before she can second guess any further, she apparates to the third floor.

All the doors are slightly ajar, save one, and she knows where Theodore must be. Knowing that he is in there, awaiting her arrival, makes her feel at once wanton and powerful. She has felt neither before. She strides forward, entering the room without knocking.

Having shed his cape and mask, Theodore is standing, fiddling with something on the bedside table. When he turns, she sees that it’s an old photograph. He puts it down, forgetting it as he turns his attention to her. He walks over, commanding her to turn. She does, and feels the pull of magic as he flicks his wand, undoing the laces that hold her bodice on. Another flick of his wand, and her dress pools around her feet. Theodore banishes it to a chair across the room, and sets his wand down next to the photograph.

Astoria turns to face him, nude, holding her breath as he drinks her in. His eyes roam over her from head to toe, pausing over her breasts, which makes her blush, though she lifts her chin defiantly.

“Well?” she asks, finally, if only to break the silence.

“Come here,” he says, and she does. He goes to kiss her, but she withholds her mouth. Instead, she sinks to her knees before him.

He stares down at her, hard, but makes no objection as her fingers first unfasten the hook and button of his trousers, then pull down the zip. He does not touch her as she draws him out, already erect. He remains still as her hand slides over his shaft, tentatively at first, exploring, then with a more determined stroke. It is only when she touches him with her tongue, running it first over the underside of his cock, then over the top, that he makes a noise, sucking in a breath.

“Blessed hell,” he says, and then Astoria feels his fingers tangle in her hair, in a grip so tight that it is nearly uncomfortable, but she doesn’t mind. It only means he wants her.

She wraps her lips around him, and he groans, and then thrusts forward, filling her mouth. He pulls back, then pushes forward again, gliding along the inside of her cheek. Astoria knows how it must look to him, looking down at her from above, seeing himself moving inside her mouth. It makes her thighs tremble. She uses her lips, her tongue, and she lets him guide her, too, wanting him reduced to the same state that she is- lust personified.

Finally, he tugs her to her feet. “No more,” he whispers, his breath ragged one more, and Astoria grins slyly. He frowns, then cups the back of her head, pulling her to him for a demanding kiss that leaves her feeling thoroughly ravaged.

She makes quick work of his dress shirt, even as he shimmies out of his trousers and pants. Now they are on equal footing. He bears her back toward the bed, picking her up and laying her down amid a pile of pillows. She stares up at him as he looms above her; she can hardly believe this is happening, that after all her fantasies and stolen glances, Theodore is naked and atop her.

“Potion?” he asks, and she shakes her head. No, her duty is to give the Malfoys an heir; she is not on any sort of prophylactic potion. Theodore grimaces, then reaches for his wand, muttering a charm before replacing it on the night table. Astoria feels sharp bolt of embarrassment, but Theodore gives her no time to dwell on it. His mouth is on hers again, and she is once again lost to anything but him.

His hands roam her body, and she allows him every liberty. She arches her back, pressing her small breasts against his hands, and delights in the feel of his fingers rolling over her nipples. Gods, have they ever been so taut? Then he lowers his mouth to them, and Astoria discovers they can grow harder.

She can hear herself crying out; every touch he graces her with seems to drive her to some new peak. His hands stroke down her body, re-familiarising themselves with the parts they’ve already explored, earlier on the balcony. Astoria craves it all, urges him onward. She is not idle; her own hands explore, touching and teasing, running through his hair, learning the angles of his jaw, the curves of his buttocks; everywhere she can reach, she touches.

Finally he lifts away, his hands running along the underside of her thighs. He urges her to turn over without so many words, and as she has done with everything this evening, Astoria complies. She allows him to lift her arse in the air, tucking her knees under her body. Her head falls on the pile of fluffy pillows surrounding her. Theodore’s hand snakes around, cupping her breast; the other tangles in her hair again, urging her back toward him. He kisses her mouth, and as Astoria arches back against him, she can feel his cock hard against her backside. She adjusts slightly, widening her stance, and Theodore hisses as the maneuver brings him right against her wet heat.

“Please,” she murmurs against his lips.

Theodore gives his answer by pulling slightly away, only to thrust forward, seating himself inside of her. She moans, and he lets her fall forward.

There is no art in anything Astoria does now. She’s merely responsive, instinctive, driving her hips back against him to meet him with each forward thrust. It’s thrilling, the way he fills her, the way each motion sends shivers rippling over her body. She feels slick and heavy where they are joined, like he is going to make her burst. She supposes that in a fashion, he is.

Astoria dares a look back, raising herself up on her elbows. Gods, he is as lost as she is, his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes screwed shut, his hair falling over his forehead, damp with sweat. _Theodore_. It was Theodore behind her; she was here, in Adrian Pucey’s guest chamber, getting most completely fucked by Theodore Nott, who was not her husband. It should have been the thought that threw a bucket of cold water over her. Instead, it sent her over the edge into the abyss of ultimate pleasure.

She nearly screams as she comes, and Theodore’s hand slides round to cover her mouth so she cannot. She bites into the flesh of his palm, needing some outlet for the intense pleasure crashing over her like a wave. He growls, and she can feel his hipbones smacking into the flesh of her arse as he drives into her as hard as he can; another orgasm rocks her. Theodore presses his mouth to her shoulder, giving a deeply muffled cry of his own, and she feels him release within her.

He turns his head, panting, as his cheek presses against her sweat-slick back. His fingers fall away from her mouth, and Astoria draws gasping breaths in relief. The air is sweet as it rushes into her throat, and she is pleased to simply lay there for a moment, no matter how ridiculous she looks in the aftermath of their rutting. Eventually she feels Theodore lift his head, his hands stroking gently down her back as he straightens. He gives her backside a squeeze as he disentangles himself, twisting over to lay down beside her.

Astoria forces herself to move, to sit up and roll over. She lays herself across him, her breasts pressed to his chest, giving him a more tender kiss than the ones they managed before. Theodore’s head is pillowed on his own hands, but his eyes are on her when she looks at him. Astoria is not quite sure what to say, or if she should say anything at all. She has never had to endure such a moment before; she came to her marriage a virgin, and bedding her husband was nothing like this.

They lay there a moment longer, then Theodore gives her dismissive sort of pat on her arse, extracting himself from their tangled embrace. He summons his clothes, and with a sigh, Astoria supposes she ought to do the same. Her wand is in her handbag, however, which is with the remainder of her clothes. She begins to stand on wobbly legs.

“Hey,” Theodore says, his hand encircling her wrist. She looks back at him, and he gives her another kiss. She feels better, and unsteadily makes her way to the chair Theodore banished her gown to earlier.

Astoria pulls her gown on as best she can, though it is not the sort of thing a woman can put on alone. She presents her back to Theodore, asking, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he says. He sets her to rights, this time by hand, rather than by wand. When he’s tied her in right and tight, he leans forward, pressing his mouth against her neck.

Perhaps it is better if they don’t discuss what has just passed between them, Astoria thinks. No analysis, no recriminations, no what ifs or suppositions about the future. She wants this memory, just for herself, without anything marring it. She expects she will be giving herself enough remonstration come morning.

She turns, kissing him one more time, allowing just a flare of the hunger that inflamed them earlier, before she apparates back to the first floor loo she’d used to make her escape earlier, glad she’d had the foresight to lock the door. Her hair is a shambles, but that’s easily fixed, as are her cosmetic charms. She still looks like the same woman as earlier, once she is done. Only she knows she is different.

***


End file.
